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Burtie! Burtie! Burtie!”
    “And that’s when everybody started calling her Birdie.”
    “Except when she says not to,” Isabel amended.
    Lily pushed a curl out of Mariah’s eyes. “So you don’t mind this long journey every year?”
    “Oh, no. Summer in Paradise is like—heaven.” Mariah looked surprised at her own turn of phrase.
    “I remember that,” Lily said, mostly to herself. “I remember that feeling.”
    Jennet sat up and slowly stretched her arms overhead. “As do I. Though I never had so many fine playmates. A whole crackle of cousins.”
    “Do you think we’ll get there today?” Isabel asked, climbing into her mother’s lap like a much younger child.
    “Not if we loll about in bed we won’t.”
    Someone was knocking at the door.
    “Maybe it’s Uncle Simon, come to wish you a good morning,” Mariah said, grinning at Lily.
    But when Lily opened the door, she found her father standing there with an expression that did not promise good news.
    “Tell me,” Jennet said behind her. “What have my lads been up to now?”
    In the earliest morning, in the fragile moment between sleep and not-sleep, Elizabeth Bonner heard the sound of children laughing and immediately time rolled away and gave up everything to her: the children she had raised, and those she had lost too young. All of them in the next room, laughing together.
    For that brief moment it made perfect sense that they should all be together, and then her waking mind took over, and she recognized her granddaughters’ voices.
    She lay for a moment listening. Next to her Martha Kirby was still curled into a ball, determined even in sleep. The shadows under her eyes made her seem older than her years, but in a happy mood—as she had been just ten days ago—she was the liveliest of young women, one who drew attention to herself without trying to, and seemed to be unaware of the effect she had. It was her smile that drew people to her, more than her regular features or high color. Martha had her father’s hair: straight and heavy, but where Liam had been coppery redhead, Martha’s color deepened over time to a deep rich hue that worked brown in some lights and red in others. In the sun it burned a hundred shades, from copper to gold.
    Elizabeth studied Martha’s face, looking for some trace of her mother, some feature that she could recognize as Jemima. Others did see the connection, in the height of her brow and the line of her nose, but Elizabeth could not.
    “They are mother and daughter, I’m not denying that,” Elizabeth had said to her husband. “But they are no more alike than chalk and cheese.”
    “Boots, you see it that way because you like the girl,” Nathaniel said. “You don’t want to see Jemima Southern in her, so you don’t.”
    That much was true. Elizabeth could not find any charity in her heart for the woman who had cheated a good man out of his property and abandoned her only daughter at the tender age of eleven.
    Still asleep, Martha drew in a hiccupping breath, much as a very young child would when coming to the end of a long cry. She moved a little deeper into the covers and Elizabeth saw that she had been sleeping with a ring clutched in her right hand.
    A beautiful ring held so tightly that there would be a bruise there, a faint stigmata. She had tried to give the ring back to her young man when he broke off their engagement, but he had refused. A silly, ignorant boy who was too easily persuaded by an overbearing mother. He was not worthy of Martha, though the girl could not see that, not now. Perhaps not for a long time.
    There was a light tapping at the door. Elizabeth draped a shawl around herself and slipped out into the hall, where her husband leaned with one shoulder against the wall.
    “Boots.” He reached out and pulled her in to him, lowered his head to kiss her just under the ear. He had slept in the stable and the sweet warm smells clung to him.
    Better not to think about Nathaniel in a